CHAPTER 260: ECHOES OF BEFORE

40 years ago, there were children who were born in a facility.

They called one Subject 3830. The other, 3829. Just numbers—digits assigned at birth, tattooed behind their ears like serial codes on abandoned equipment. No names. No birthdays. No family records.

Just concrete walls. Observation windows. And silence.

But silence could be broken.

It happened on a day like any other. 3830 sat cross-legged on the cold floor of Rec Room B—a blank, gray chamber barely large enough to echo. Her hands were clutched around a dull plastic block she’d been given to "stimulate problem-solving behavior." Her eyes weren’t on it. They were on the ceiling.

Until he walked in.

3829

He wasn’t big, not yet. A wiry twelve-year-old with dark, unruly hair and a still-healing bruise on his chin. His eyes scanned the room, as if checking for hidden cameras or punishment panels. Then they landed on her.

He didn’t say anything at first. Neither did she. But he sat down anyway. Across from her. Legs folded the same way.

For five full minutes, they did nothing but sit.

Then—

"What’s your block made of?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. It wasn’t the question she expected. "Plastic."

He leaned forward. "No, I mean what kind? Polyethylene? PVC? They’re different weights. I’m trying to guess."

3830 stared at him. Then, very slowly, offered the block.

He took it, rolled it in his palms.

"Definitely polyethylene," he said finally. "You can throw these farther."

A tiny smile formed on her lips.

That was the first conversation. It wasn’t much. But it was everything.

In the weeks that followed, they began to meet more often. Rec rooms. Cafeteria slots. Sometimes in the medical line. When their handlers weren’t looking, they’d mouth words. Scribble letters into the dirt with their shoes. Leave tiny carvings on the walls.

Over the next three years, they weren’t just subjects. They were each other’s proof that something human still lived behind the protocols.

3830 learned that 3829 was always watching. Not for danger. For patterns. Escape routes. Staff routines. He’d memorized schedules down to the minute and knew which scientists forgot to lock drawers.

3829 learned that 3830 had a mind like a vault. She could remember every name spoken in the hallways, every shift in guard placement, every crack in the facility’s walls.

They began to dream. Quietly. Together.

Age 13:

They pass in a hallway under flickering lights. He brushes against her shoulder like it’s accidental—but slips her half a nutrition bar, soft and warm from his sleeve. She hides it fast. Mouths thank you without smiling, because smiling gets noticed. Her arms are bruised, purple and yellow, from an experiment that didn’t finish properly. She hasn’t slept. But for a moment, chewing quietly behind her cell door, she doesn’t feel like a number.

Age 14: They’re assigned to the same cognitive testing chamber—circular, sterile, lined with puzzles that reset after every failure. Cameras watch. Microphones listen. But 3829 taps his foot once, twice. She nods. They answer everything twice as fast, syncing without speaking. She has a thin scar now beneath her eye, shaped like a comma. He walks with a limp for three days—no explanation given. When they leave, neither says a word. But her fingers brush his palm. He lets them linger.

Age 15: They’re punished for resisting sedation. Separate rooms. Separate restraints. Her screams go unheard—except by him. Days later, she finds chalk under her pillow. Crude, broken, smuggled in somehow. She writes a message on her cell floor in code—nonsense to any outsider. When the guards erase it, she curls into a corner. That night, she sees it again, written exactly the same, outside her door. He remembered every mark. Every loop. Every symbol. And she sleeps without nightmares for the first time in weeks.

Age 16: She breaks. In a maintenance tunnel behind Wing D, curled behind a pipe, hands trembling so hard they leave crescent moons in her skin. He finds her—how, she’ll never know. He sits down beside her, says nothing at first. Just takes her hand. Cold fingers link. Metal hums overhead.

"I’m scared," she whispers.

"Me too."

"I don’t want to die here."

"You won’t. We’ll get out. I promise."

"How?"

Silence. Then—

"When we escape..." He hesitates. Swallows hard. "I’ll marry you."

She stares. Blinks tears. Laughs without sound. Then cries for real. Buries her face in his neck. Her arms loop around him like she might fall through the floor if she lets go.

She believes him.

Age 17: The world gets crueler.

The procedures change. Needles go deeper. Machines stay longer. Recovery becomes less likely, and time between trials shorter. He returns with fresh implants embedded in his shoulders—shiny steel beneath thin skin. His voice trembles when he breathes now. She starts bleeding from the eyes after every scan, every probe, every time they push her mind too far. Her vision blurs at the edges. Her nose is almost always crusted with dried red.

They receive job titles now.

3830: Expert Scanner. A mind made to dissect others. Analyze. Understand.

3829: Job Disabler. A body made to erase advantage. Nullify strength.

They barely see each other anymore. She’s kept near terminals. He’s sent to testing fields.

But they still find ways.

A half-smile through a cafeteria window. A hand pressed briefly against reinforced glass. Hope passed not in words, but presence. A glance that says: I remember you. I still believe.

Then—chaos.

One day, alarms erupt. Doors fail. Security falters. Overhead speakers blare incomprehensible codes. The entire facility is plunged into emergency lockdown.

Word spreads among the subjects:

Someone’s breaching containment. Subject 3840.

Barely anyone ever interacted with her. But everyone hears what they’re doing—ripping through guards, freeing doors, creating cracks in the system.

Subjects begin to flee. To fight. To run.

3829 finds 3830 amid the stampede near an auxiliary hallway.

"We have to go," he says.

She nods—but she’s limping. A jagged wound stretches across her calf, blood trailing behind her. Every step is agony.

He throws her arm over his shoulder and supports her weight.

They run.

Lights flicker. Sirens pulse. Screams echo down the corridors. The scent of ozone and smoke clings to the air.

They turn a corner—

And a soldier stands there.

The rifle rises.

BANG.

Blood sprays.

3829 jerks as the bullet tears through his lower jaw. He drops to one knee but still shoves 3830 around the corner.

She tumbles. Crawls. Turns to go back.

But it’s too late.

A wall of soldiers descends.

They don’t see her.

They grab him.

He looks up—jaw shattered, blood pouring from his mouth—and smiles at her.

A soft, broken smile.

As if to say: Run. You’re free.

She reaches for him.

But her body doesn’t respond.

She crawls forward. Inches. Desperate.

He disappears behind a door.

Gone.

She drags herself toward the breach. Toward the light.

And escapes.

Present Day

She kneels beside him now.

The boy who once promised her a future.

His body is older. Broken. Scarred.

But to her, he’s still the boy who handed her a plastic block and guessed its weight. Still the voice who said I’ll marry you with dirt on his hands and hope in his eyes.

Her tears won’t stop.

She lays beside him, gun in hand.

Her fingers tremble.

Not from fear.

From release.

She presses her forehead to his shoulder as her left hand holds his right hand.

"Maybe..." she whispers, "we can try again. Somewhere else. In another life."

The gun turns.

The muzzle rests against her temple.

Her finger finds the trigger.

A breath.

A beat.

Her life ends.

With silence.

And freedom.